Never Go Home (25 page)

She nodded,
reached out and grabbed my arm. “Be careful, Jack.”

“Always.”

I jogged toward
the jet and boarded. It looked like my first flight. Marcia had claimed the
couch. I saw the flight crew, didn’t recognize any of them. We departed soon
after I took a seat. A man said it would be close to nine a.m. in Florida when
we landed. I didn’t want to be groggy when we touched down, so I did pushups in
the aisle every half hour, and paced the length of the cabin.

Every fifteen
minutes or so, I checked the phone Sasha had handed to me. If she had found
something, she hadn’t sent it yet. I planned to call her for an update the
moment we landed. I’d have to get away from Marcia for a few minutes to do so.

The trip took
just over five hours. After three Trans-Atlantic flights in a Gulfstream, I
never wanted to cross on a commercial flight again. I could sit on the floor
surrounded by roaming livestock and be happy about arriving in record time.

Marcia followed
me to the exit. Hot, humid air blew in. I stopped, turned and told her I needed
to use the restroom. She stepped aside and allowed me to pass.

Inside the
cramped bathroom, I checked the phone again. Still no documents. I called Sasha
on my cell. She answered right away.

“I can’t get
into the file,” she said.

“What do you
mean?” I said.

“Security.”

“Don’t you have
the highest clearance possible?”

“I do. That’s
what’s so frustrating. I’m stuck waiting for an answer now.”

“OK. We’ve
landed. Did you arrange a car?”

“There should
be a Lincoln out there.”

“No driver this
time, right?”

“What?”

“Last time, the
car that you had arranged had a driver waiting.”

“It shouldn’t
have. The car should have been left for you.”

“It wasn’t.
There was a man who insisted on driving.”

She paused.
“Someone screwed up, Jack.”

It didn’t sit
right, but that was a couple days ago, and I didn’t have time to worry about it
now. We ended the call with promises to share information and be careful. I
exited the plane. Marcia waited for me by the Lincoln’s passenger side door.

I glanced
around the deserted airfield and jogged toward the car. A large hangar lingered
in the background. Small single prop planes lined the outer edges of the runway.
Anticipation built with every step. I expected a sniper’s rifle to send a sub
sonic round through my skull at any moment.

“Get in,” I
said to Marcia from twenty feet away.

She opened her
door and slid inside. I flinched at the sound of her door slamming shut.

It hit me then
what had made me so uncomfortable about the driver. Sasha hadn’t arranged it.
Someone else had. Someone else knew that I had left England for Jessie’s
funeral.

What if that
someone knew I’d returned again?

Alessandro
forced his way into the sheriff’s office before the sun came up. They only had
a single lock on the front door. Child’s play for him. He took his time down
the short, narrow hallway. He stepped past it and saw a large square room. He
passed a door on his right. He pushed it open and saw a break room. The door
closed and he continued forward. Three cells lined the back wall. Each cell
looked to be eight foot square. In front of the cells, there were four desks.
The desks were split into two groups, butted front to front, with a five-foot
space creating an aisle between them.

At most he’d
deal with four cops. Those odds did not favor him. Drop the headcount by one or
two and he’d feel better about his chances.

He settled in
and waited. Always one to arrive early, he’d been through this many times
before. The element of surprise was his greatest asset. It would benefit him
once again. The cops, when they entered, would let their guard down. They would
be in the safest place they knew of. The station was their home away from home.
And they ruled the building.

Light began to
filter in through the shaded windows. The room was no longer dark. He’d have to
change his approach now. The dark had provided him with cover. The light would
force him to act swiftly and decisively. He’d have to change his tactics a bit.
He could use one of the desks, but that would put him in a non-optimal
position. The wall that separated the room from the hall was an option. But if
there were multiple officers, he’d have to count on all of them entering at
once.

He knew this
was a fatal flaw in his plan. Why had Vera sent him here? It was only going to
get him killed.

He called her,
but received no answer. He didn’t leave a message.

She wouldn’t
have let him out of the job, anyway.

He continued to
assess various spots in the room for the advantages and disadvantages they gave
him. He ruled out the desks, the wall, the drop ceiling, and the cells. In the
end, he settled on the break room.

The best-case
scenario involved only one cop. He could think of no second best option.
Anytime he had to confront multiple armed individuals, the odds dropped.

Time passed.
Six, then seven in the morning. Eight approached. He sat in a chair in front of
the cells beside a window. He kept an eye on the street. He could see anyone
coming from the right, left, or head on.

Shortly after
nine in the morning, three cops in uniform approached the door.

Alessandro
rushed to the break room. He closed the door so that it remained open a crack.
His gut tightened. He didn’t like the set up. If his first shot missed, he was
screwed. They’d have him pinned. He’d go down.

The front door
opened and shut several seconds later. Had they all come in? He stood next to
the wall, his ear pressed against the break room entrance. He heard their
voices. They sounded tired, defeated.

A result of his
handiwork. It made him smile.

A desk chair
groaned under someone’s weight. A woman said something. A man chuckled. He
heard the word coffee.

A hand slapped
against the door. Alessandro pressed his back into the cinder block wall. The
door swung open, stopping inches from his nose. By the time the door retreated,
a man had walked two feet past him. Alessandro crept toward his unwitting
target. He reached out with both hands. His left wrapped around the front and
grabbed the guy’s stubbled chin. His right grabbed the base of the man’s skull.
He pulled them in opposite directions. The guy’s neck snapped, and he fell to
the floor.

Alessandro
reached down and removed the cop’s Glock from its holster. He walked toward the
door, stopped, listened. There was nothing to indicate that the others had
heard the sound of their partner dying.

He eased the
door open. Two cops, one male, one female, sat at their desks, facing him. They
stared down at paperwork. They had pens in their hands, not pistols.

Alessandro
whipped the door open. He aimed at the man with his right hand, the woman with
his left. He fired off two simultaneous shots.

The man jerked
backward, stiffened. Blood trickled from a fresh hole in his forehead. He fell
off his seat.

The shot missed
the woman. She dove toward the floor. He couldn’t see her through the desks, so
he unloaded the Glock he’d taken from the dead cop’s holster. Bullets crashed
against the metal frame.

He screamed. So
did the woman.

Alessandro had
to get out of the break room. There was no exit other than the way he entered.
The woman would surely be on the phone, if she wasn’t already, calling for
backup. He fired off another shot, and stepped out.

The woman
squeeze off a round. Thunder exploded in the room. Intense pain rose through
his leg like burning acid. He fell to the ground. Blood pooled around his
ankle. She fired again. It missed. He shuffled on the floor toward the cells. A
mistake, he realized, but he couldn’t backtrack. The second set of desks
provided him some cover.

He pressed his
head to the floor and saw the woman. It looked like blood stained her uniform.
He stuck his arm out and fired. She screamed in pain.

“Come on out,”
he said. “Let’s do this.”

Desk drawers
opened as the woman clawed her way up.

Alessandro
reached behind himself, grabbed hold of the cell bars and dragged himself to
his feet. He couldn’t stand on his injured leg. He used the iron bars to
support his weight.

They faced each
other.

She leaned against
her desk for support. She had blood on her shirt in two spots. He’d hit her in
the shoulder and the abdomen. She held her pistol in her left hand. She’d had
the pen in her right.

He smiled,
knowing he had her.

Alessandro
lifted his arm, squeezed the trigger and closes his eyes at the sound of his
Glock firing. The sound echoed all around him.

He opened his
eyes. The woman stood there, another crimson blossom forming on her thigh. His
stomach burned. He looked down. She’d hit him in the gut. He looked up and saw
her lift her arm again. He fired another shot. This one hit her in the chest.
She collapsed. Alessandro leaned back against the bars. The pain he felt
intensified. He glanced down again. She’d hit him in the abdomen a second time.

He knew enough
about human anatomy to know that there was little chance he’d survive his
wounds. Even if an ambulance drove through the wall at that moment, they’d take
their time. He’d killed three cops, and they’d pin the fourth on him.

The weight of
his body became too much for his weakened core to handle. He took a shaky
breath and slid down the cell bars. The desks blocked his view of the woman. He
saw the male cop’s feet, but that was it.

Alessandro
closed his eyes and waited for death.

I kept the speedometer
fixed at eighty. I didn’t use the cruise control. A steady foot did the trick.
How I managed to keep my foot steady, I wasn’t sure.

I’d tried to
call April a dozen times. The phone only rang two or three times the first few
attempts. I had pictured her diverting my calls to voicemail. I hoped it was
because she was busy. I figured it had been because I’d spurned her and left
her pissed off. I feared that something had happened to her.

The last few
calls rang several times before being sent to her mailbox. It wasn’t her voice
on the message, either. A computer generated greeting answered each time.

My nerves
built. I’d hit redial, wait, hang up, then check the phone that Sasha had given
me. Still nothing from her. I wanted to call her, but didn’t with Marcia
sitting next to me.

Marcia
appeared to have no reaction to any of this. She kept her eyes forward. I
wondered what went through her head.

The minutes
flew by. Before I knew it we passed the burned remains of the senior care
facility where my father had stayed. There was nothing left. A burning pile of
rubble and smoke. A few people gathered nearby. They hugged and consoled one
another. Families, I presumed.

This town had
never experienced so much killing. Probably not in its entire lifetime. And it
all started when I came home. Except for Jessie. But there was no doubt she
died because of me.

We passed the
abandoned road where Craig had been executed. The Tercel was still there.
Yellow police tape had been strung around it, hanging from the trees.

I tried April
again. No answer. I called four-one-one, had them connect me to the sheriff’s
office. The line was busy.

I saw the
entrance to Matt’s neighborhood. Turned right. Saw the purple house that my
grandfather had built with his own two hands. I imagined him turning in his
grave, again.

Police tape
surrounded Matt’s house. April’s car wasn’t there, and neither were her
deputies. I didn’t stop. I went to the end of the street and whipped around in
the tight cul-de-sac.

“Where are we
going?” Marcia said.

“I guess we
should go to April’s house,” I said.

“Wasn’t the
line to the sheriff’s office busy?”

“Yeah.”

“We should go
there.”

I glanced at
her, surprised she offered any input. She stared at me. I thought she looked
steeled and determined. I nodded and turned toward town.

Downtown
Crystal River looked deserted. Typical for a Sunday morning. Though many had
been to Jessie’s funeral the day before, they still attended church for Sunday
service.

I hopped the
curb and parked the car. I left a few feet of space for pedestrians to pass
through. I made it halfway to the entrance before Marcia got a foot on the
ground. I stopped and turned and waited.

“Sorry,” she
said as she kicked off her flats and ran toward me barefoot. She held her purse
in her left hand and stuck her right arm out for balance. She might have been
undercover at one time, but she’d never had the type of training I’d been
through.

I yanked the
door open. A cool gust blew toward me. The humid air fought it back. I entered,
heard Marcia slap the door and step in behind me. This wasn’t a time for
manners.

We stood in
the dark hallway. The office was quiet. I caught a trace of nitroglycerin and
sawdust in the air. I held one arm out and ushered Marcia behind me.

I crept along
the wall, the M40 drawn and in front of me. As I neared the end, I saw a door.
It had three splintered bullet holes. I straightened up, looked over my
shoulder, mouthed the words, “Wait here.” Then I crouched and stepped around
the corner. The area looked clear. I kept the pistol in front of me and
sidestepped toward the bullet hole ridden door. I leaned against it. It opened.
A man lay on the floor. I didn’t see any blood, but he didn’t appear to be
breathing.

Easing back
into the room, I heard a cough. I scanned and saw the desk in front of me had
been shot up. I saw a man on the floor behind another desk. I went to his side.
He’d been shot in the head. His lifeless eyes stared up, focused on nothing.